


One Last Drink

by ElphabaInTheTARDIS



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Brotp, Drunkenness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElphabaInTheTARDIS/pseuds/ElphabaInTheTARDIS
Summary: If asked, Lenore would 100% deny that she was ever even involved. Plausible deniability and all that.
Featuring the most BroTP of all BroTPs, HemingWells.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 100% based off an idea I got right after I saw the HemingWells video yesterday (and if you haven't seen that yet, then go watch it. Joey Richter and Blake Silver are gifts to humanity and we do not deserve them).

If asked, Lenore would 100% deny that she was ever even involved. Plausible deniability and all that.

Plus like, H.G. needed more friends who weren’t her or Annabel. And Edgar is too emo to even handle right now (the whole “killing a person and hiding their heart under a floorboard really puts a damper on someone’s personality, Lenore is learning). And sometimes Lenore just needed him…out of the attic. She was more than happy to share the space with him but his inventions had _seriously_ taken over the place and she needed some time to just…be alone and read without judgement.

Who would have thought that being hella literate also came with judgement from everyone around her.

(Okay so maybe only Edgar judges her for her reading choices. Annabel thinks they’re cute. And H.G.? Well…Lenore didn’t exactly want him finding out exactly how many time she’d read his books. Nope. Nope nope nope.)

So when Hemingway had showed up because he’d “overheard that a most beautiful lady had returned to haunt this world once more” she knew she had to do something for a few reasons. The first, Annabel was too nice to say no. (The girl was seriously too nice for her own good.) And secondly, Lenore was sick of Edgar’s failed attempts to stick up for Annabel or prove that he was better. And thirdly Edgar’s attempts to out-man Hemingway were just so…pathetic? Lame? So incredibly off-base and it was a good thing Annabel already liked him? So that left her one option.

(Plus like…H.G. would forgive her for this later.)

(Hopefully.)

(Probably.)

So after Hemingway decided he needed to sit _right next_ to poor Annabel, and after the 10th time of Annabel being too polite to tell him to go away, Lenore decided to take things into her own hands. She floated over (because the floating thing seemed to creep Hemingway out, so she decided she might as well have fun with this) to where the idiot was getting _far too cozy_ with her bestie and prattling on about how his boxing record was so great and how he had  _totally_ bested Eddie in that fight and sat down with a dramatic sigh. Annabel shot her a thankful glance, which only emboldened her resolve to make this work.

“So like…I have something I don’t think you’ll be able to do. Like ever” She took a long drink of her martini while she watched Hemingway process (slowly) that he’d just been challenged.

“I can do _anything,_ ” he sputtered indignantly. “Miss Lee, would you like me to prove that I can do whatever this spirit is asking me to do? We can celebrate afterword, perhaps on a private trip to Italy?”

Lenore rolled her eyes. He was impossible. “Well it’s just that I don’t think your boxing is really that great. I mean like…what’s so great about boxing anyways? You couldn’t even get in a punch when it really counted. I bet you’re like…the worst at boxing.” Deciding to add insult to injury she decided to push just a bit more. “Like, I bet you couldn’t even teach someone the basics, even someone who probably already knows the theories behind them.”

Lenore waited. She could almost hear the gears turning in Hemingway’s head as his drunk brain caught up with what she had just said. And then he abruptly stood up, staggering a bit as his body caught up with his actions.

“I can teach _anyone_ how to box. I’ll even teach you how to box! But of course I don’t want to hit a beautiful…spirit…such as yourself, so how about we just work on the part where you ladies get close to me and…”

“Oh god. Ew. No.” Lenore stood up, wondering if this idea had maybe not been as well thought out as she’d liked. “I meant…” she trailed off as H.G. walked into the room but then smirked at him.

H.G. did not like it when Lenore started smirking like that. No good would come of that smirk he was sure.

“I meant that you should teach H.G. how to box.”

H.G.’s eyebrows shot upwards. What on earth had he walked into? And was it too late to turn back?

But before he could even question this further he was being dragged out of the room by a (very) eager Hemingway who was shouting some nonsense about a boxing record and how it was “perfect” and that no one could question it.

(“We all can question it, Ernest.” “Poe, I’ll fight you too if I have to.”)

~*~

And thus, H.G. found himself with Hemingway learning how to…box? He wasn’t entirely sure what liquor had to do with boxing. He had studied many things in his life…afterlife…and from his understanding, boxing was a physical sport where one needed to best their opponent in a visceral and violent way. But Hemingway…said the way to do this was to drink whiskey.

He wondered if this was just an excuse for Hemingway to drink more of Edgar’s liquor.

It’s not that he minded being around Hemingway. Quite the opposite, in fact, The man fascinated him. Someone who lives completely without fear, someone who goes after what they want without abandon. It made H.G. both fascinated and envious.

But H.G. wasn’t so sure that Hemingway enjoyed being around him. He did, however, like to look at things from a scientific perspective, with an analytical and logical mind. This type of mindset seemed to constantly confound his…friend? Could he call him a friend? Anyone from that fateful party-that-must-not-be-spoken-of felt as if they should be more than a mere acquaintance, but he felt that he did not know any of them well enough (with the exception of those he now lived with) to call them friends.

The point was, of course, he did not mind spending time with him. H.G. did, however, find Hemingway’s version of boxing…rather odd.

He would have to ask Edgar what he’d meant about the not-perfect record.

*~*

Ernest wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. So along the way he’d made Wells pick up his damn contraption that made the moving pictures or whatever crap he’d said it did. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be sure that there was _proof_ that he’d taught him how to box. The spirits wouldn’t believe him if he just told them.

Plus if he got to heckle Wells in the process, well that was an added bonus.

And drink more. There’s always a reason to drink. It’s what Real Men™ do anyways.

Step one: drink. Step two: drink more. Step three: drink again.

There. Nailed it.

(Step 4: make Wells drink the whiskey. Step 5: drink more)

*~*

Later that night when H.G. stumbled back up to the attic, Lenore was shocked…and then remembered that while H.G. had gotten _really good_ at being corporeal…he also was not great at remembering to stop concentrating. He’d forgotten to stop concentrating and now she had a very drunk (but very adorable) nerd on her hands.  Hemingway had basically carried H.G. up the stairs…well…they had carried each other up the stairs as if they were old drinking buddies. Lenore rolled her eyes.

_Boys._

*~*

When asked in the morning what happened, H.G. could only groan into the pillow and mutter something about how sports and alcohol shouldn’t be mixed. And something about how this was her fault.

Lenore tried not to be too amused.

She very possibly failed.

 


End file.
